"Deathstroke was after something else," was the first thing I said when Mother returned to the infirmary.
"The Lazarus Pit," Talia nodded.
She's a smart woman, after all—shame she's so callous and ego-driven.
"And since he didn't get it," she continued, "he will come again."
The room fell into silence. Talia pulled off the top of her uniform, remaining in a sports top, and began tending to her wounds. The battle hadn't left her unscathed. Right now, almost all the League of Shadows fighters occupied the neighboring wards, healing up.
"You need to be hidden," Talia declared after five minutes.
A dilemma. I want to hide too—at my father's—but the rage over such a treacherous attack still smolders in my chest. I want to rip the arms and legs off that yellow-armored terminator for daring to attack my League of Shadows. Sigh. If there are doubts, check the initial data, right?
Receiving no reaction, Mother approached the cot where I had been sitting this whole time, leaned down, gently took my face in her hands, and looked into my eyes.
"You are the future head of the League of Shadows, Damian. Your task is to lead the organization to greatness, to fulfill the mission of cleansing the world of filth. You need to study, to become smarter. Fighters should fight; leaders should lead."
Her green eyes burned with concern. I wonder, concern for her son's fate, or for the heir's? Stupid question—the latter, obviously. She doesn't want such a useful tool as me to be killed. But the main question is: what do I want?
I want to sleep. Eat something sweet. Read something interesting and relaxing. Rest. I want love and affection. I want to procrastinate without thinking about the complexities of the world I was reborn into. I want to run away into a harem slice-of-life! I want to punch Deathstroke's face in. I want a Sharingan—no, Mangekyou Sharingan—no, Eternal Mangekyou Sharingan. I want my Genjutsu to be like Aizen's, not some hard-to-use scrap. I want to eat ice cream. I want to meet the Justice League, just to philosophize. I want to go to school and be friends with the coolest kids so everyone looks at me with stars in their eyes because I'm just that cool. Hang out with girls.
Wait, where did that last one come from? Ah, right—I'm twelve now, the hormones are starting to wake up.
Sigh. I want to go to Dad. The League of Shadows will figure it out without me, and if they don't, I'll help them out later. It's annoying that I don't remember a damn thing about the plot involving a Deathstroke attack, if such a thing was even covered in the comics. How hard it is to be a "perished soul" in a new world without knowing the script!
"We will hide you where Deathstroke would never think to look," Mother took my pensive look as agreement.
I don't mind. Take me to Father.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bruce," Alfred Pennyworth greeted as politely as ever.
The clock read two in the afternoon, but the Dark Knight of Gotham rose exactly at this time. He could afford it, playing the role of the rake, the reveler, and the playboy.
"Bats sleep during the day," a body muttered from under the covers.
"Perhaps, but during the day you are a man," the elderly gentleman replied calmly, ruthlessly throwing open the curtains. Sunlight burst into the room, brightly illuminating the large bedroom and its equally large bed. The body on the bed tossed around, as if entangled in the duvet cover, but managed to emerge into the rays of the afternoon sun—a very rare sight for Gotham, by the way.
"Remind me not to go after Poison Ivy with my bare hands."
"I venture to say I have already reminded you twice, and both times you ignored my recommendations."
Bruce Wayne winced, acknowledging his butler's correctness, got out of bed, and immediately dropped to the floor—morning exercises don't do themselves. While the billionaire pushed the earth away, Alfred stood nearby and began reporting everything that had happened while Bruce slept.
"...also, a paper letter arrived in our mailbox, with no sender or any indication of the source. But the contents of this letter should interest you; I have placed it on your nightstand. That is all."
"Th-thanks, Alfred," Bruce strained as he arched into a back bridge.
"You are quite welcome, Mr. Bruce," the butler replied with his unvarying polite smile. "Breakfast will be served in twelve minutes."
The heels of men's shoes clicked against the expensive parquet, and Alfred left the room to attend to his duties.
Finishing his warm-up, Bruce walked to the nightstand, picked up the white sheet of paper, and quickly read the lines written in neat, beautiful, and oh-so-familiar handwriting.
"What do you need this time?" the man's expression grew serious.
Breakfast, work on Batman's gear, a full workout, and finally, it was time to leave for the scheduled meeting.
"Are you sure you should go alone?" Alfred, as always, worried for his master.
"Yes, it will be fine, Alfred."
The door of the Aston Martin closed, the engine roared, and the car sped away from the estate grounds. All the way there, Bruce turned over ideas as to why Talia al Ghul had invited him to a meeting. Him, not Batman. He had no concrete ideas, only a few guesses that didn't allow him to determine a line of conduct or identify possible traps—physical or verbal.
The meeting was set for a pier, and as he pulled up, Bruce realized why such an unusual place had been chosen. A small but luxurious black yacht swayed rhythmically on the choppy water, and standing next to it was a beautiful woman, dressed in a revealing yet elegant burgundy dress that emphasized every curve of her body and put her magnificent legs on display.
Bruce left the car on the shoulder and headed toward the pier on foot.
"Good to see you, Bruce," Talia al Ghul, daughter of a terrorist and former flame, greeted him with a graceful smile.
"What do you want, Talia?" the alter ego of Batman asked coldly.
"To talk, inside," Talia didn't react to the coldness, and with an inviting wave of her hand, she ascended the gangplank to the yacht's aft deck. Hesitating for a few seconds, Bruce followed her.
The pair climbed the stairs to the upper, covered deck, finding themselves in a cozy room with windows through which one could see Gotham bathed in the rays of the setting sun. Bruce remained silent. Talia was silent too, but she was already pouring whiskey into two glasses.
The brooding man refused the offered alcohol.
"Last time, that ended badly."
"Was it really that bad?" In a flash, Talia pressed her whole body against Bruce, seductively throwing a leg over his hip.
"No," the man finally relented and softened, "what I remember wasn't bad."
Gently but firmly, Bruce detached the sexy woman from himself, managing to maintain full control over his animal instincts.
"Why did you call me?"
"My father has been killed," she said, suddenly turning serious and discarding the feigned coquetry.
"Ra's al Ghul seemed more durable than that," Bruce said, surprised.
"A severed head makes that very difficult," Talia shrugged. "A conflict is brewing..."
"I won't take a side," Bruce interrupted her.
"That's not why I invited you, but aren't you even curious about how I feel?" Talia tried to bring back the flirtatiousness.
"Are you two finished with your mating games yet?" a child's voice suddenly rang out from the side, surprising both Talia and Bruce.
The two martial arts masters tensed instantly; their hearts accelerated, and their adrenal glands released the first surge of adrenaline. Turning their heads, they saw a twelve-year-old child staring into a phone. He was sitting on one of the sofas, looking as if he had been there forever.
Bruce hadn't felt his presence, even though as a martial arts master and an experienced fighter, he should have—especially in a small, enclosed room.
"Damian," Talia addressed the boy with displeasure.
"He wouldn't have fallen for it anyway, Ma," the child switched off the phone and, putting on a serious face, began to eye the only adult male in the room.
Suspicions began to creep into Bruce's mind, and he didn't like them one bit.
"Anyway, this is what I wanted to talk about," Talia took the floor. "Meet Damian, your son."
The brooding face of Batman's alter ego became even more somber.
"Damian, this is your father—Bruce Wayne."
The small child's face stretched in surprise.
"So you didn't find me in a cabbage patch?"
Bruce's grim expression shattered, replaced by shock.
"Y-you were lying to me the whole time?" A tear rolled down from the child's green eyes. "I... I loved cabbage so much..."
"That's enough, Damian." Not reacting to the performance, Talia tossed a piece of ice at her son.
It hit the boy's forehead, and the child's state changed in a snap. Bruce saw a completely calm and collected child.
"Glad to finally meet you, Father," Damian said with a little smile.
Silence filled the car. Bruce was trying to pull his brain back together, and I tactfully gave him the chance. Gotham flew by outside the window. A truly gloomy place. Dark gray tones, old buildings periodically giving way to new constructions in the same somber colors. The cars were black, the people's clothes were gray and black. Good Lord, everything here is noir!
"So your name is Damian?" the silence broke.
"Yes, Damian Wayne, as it turns out."
Silence again. For a minute.
"Is Ra's al Ghul really dead?"
"Deathstroke separated his head from his body," I replied calmly. "After that, even the Lazarus Pit won't help."
"Deathstroke?" Father was surprised.
"Yes, the former student killed the teacher. But he didn't surpass him. He used help."
"And how... how do you feel about that?" Bruce "Revenge is Bad" Wayne inquired very cautiously.
"Twelve years of my life were filled with brutal training and education; I was being prepared for the role of the head of an organization of assassins, but my opinion was never asked for. My grandfather's death didn't stir anything in my heart. But the desire to break Deathstroke's face hasn't diminished because of it."
"Break his face, eh?" Father muttered with a note of pensiveness.
The car plunged back into silence, this time until the very entrance to the estate's garage. Alfred, meeting us, was surprised to say the least—he actually raised an eyebrow!
"Master Bruce, do we have a guest?"
"Yes, Alfred. This... this is Damian Wayne, my son," Bruce introduced me with a hint of awkwardness.
As a sign of incredible surprise, nearly shock, Alfred raised his second eyebrow.
"Damian, meet Alfred Pennyworth—my butler, my right hand, and my closest friend."
"Nice to meet you." I stepped up calmly and shook the firm, elderly hand.